


potential

by am doing a breakthrough science (acceptnosubstitutes)



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: 5.4 spoilers, Fluff, General m!WoL, M/M, Mild Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-26
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-17 00:53:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29709141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acceptnosubstitutes/pseuds/am%20doing%20a%20breakthrough%20science
Summary: The Warrior of Light and G'raha take up the Lord Commander's dinner invitation before the world goes to shit again. Unexpected connections are formed.
Relationships: Aymeric de Borel/G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch/Warrior of Light
Comments: 1
Kudos: 5
Collections: Bookclub Valentione's Fic Exchange 2021





	potential

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thedreamerdelta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedreamerdelta/gifts).



> /sweats
> 
> Heee...again, an attempt was made first time writing Aymeric, and stepping out of my comfort zone writing romancey stuff with G'raha so. I hope it serves!

Stepping off the airship into the Ishgardian frigid, chill mid-afternoon air, G'raha Tia immediately regrets not bringing another jacket. Or two. Beside him, his companion takes one look at his dropping ears, tail curling around a leg for what little warmth the fluffy fur might afford him, and chuckles. To the Warrior of Light having spent an extended campaign battling dravanian hordes across frozen wastelands, the weather probably seems child's play.

"Don't worry," the other miqo'te says, "we won't be out long enough our skin turns colors past mildly red."

G'raha makes an alarmed squeak, still accepting the arm around his shoulder and tucking gratefully into the warrior's side as they depart the airship landing. Warmth radiates through his leathers and thin cloth shirt. Unnaturally so, in fact. Residue effect of being lambasted in hail of purple dragon flame under direction of their newest adversary, the ascian Fandaniel. 

Any superficial burns easily healed under Alisaie's careful attention. But the dragon fire affected the warrior's aether in a more substantial manner than his health. In what ways beyond turning him into a literal furnace remains to be seen. But did beg momentary respite while Lyse and Raubahn deal with troubling reports of a potential new tempering uprising. Without a primal yet in sight, however, the Warrior's protests went ignored. Allowing G'raha to bundle his grumpy companion halfway across the world.

And thus, Ishgard. The Warrior brightens considerably seeing the tall elezen awaiting them at the top of the stairs. Dark haired, clad in resplendent azure and gold armor, he cuts a striking figure. Smile already crinkling edges of eyes a similarly hued blue.

"Aymeric!" He calls out cheerfully, taking the steps two at a time to reach the elezen.

Ah, the Lord Commander then. The Warrior goes in for an embrace more tackle than hug in his enthusiasm, as usual. G'raha's ribs ache in sympathy. But Aymeric just laughs, patting his back politely through minor wincing.

"My friend," he greets when they part, "full glad am I we have the opportunity to dine together once more. And your companion?"

G'raha follows at a more sedate pace, yanked up the last two steps by an impatient Warrior and thrust forward. He clears his throat, casting his fellow Scion a sideways look. Then smiles. Inclines his head.

"Ah, where are my manners? G'raha Tia, your lordship."

Aymeric raises a hand. "Let us leave titles behind among friends. Simply Aymeric, if you please."

He gestures that they should proceed forward across the nearby bridge spanning these layers of the Pillars. The Warrior draws up to his side, chatting animatedly about recent world events. No doubt filling Aymeric in more about their newest adversary and his threatening Lunar Bahamut. Cringe worthy moniker or not, its fire breath very much real.

G'raha strolls along at a slower pace, peering off the edge into the vast abyss below. How far down must it go? He can't see an end from this vantage point. And for one not normally deterred by heights, even G'raha turns from the railing a little dizzy.

The bridge opens onto a landing mostly bare, twin stony statues bearing arms of icy stone holding vigil over a slow running, low set fountain. At the top of a short flight of stairs, twin manors host flag pendants. One a rose, to the left, and a unicorn to the right.

Here the Warrior of Light parts from their company before their tour of the city has scarce even begun.

"Won't be but a moment," he says, looking happier than G'raha's seen him in recent times, making for the unicorn pendant. "Promised I'd check in whenever I was in the area."

G'raha watches him greet the guard at the door, received warmly enough as though family of the house.

"High House Fortemps. I understand they took him in as a ward during the denouement of the war, along with two others. Ishgard claims new openness," Aymeric says, a touch rueful, "yet House Fortemps remains by yalm above the rest."

The name rings certain bells. Perhaps mentioned once or twice during sleepy, drowsy nights abed the Ocular. G'raha regrets little of his time spent leagues away among the citizenry of the Crystarium. With Lyna.

Yet those memories turn hazier the longer he turns away from them, faces losing detail, voices crumbling away. And the knowledge, all facets of it - the Warrior of Light's face in gentle relaxed repose or other, far more excitable natures, fades with it. Twelve willing they have the time to make new memories. 

"Do you take chill?" Mercifully, Aymeric mistakes the sudden reddening of G'raha's cheeks for mild frostbite. "Here."

Long, nimble fingers attend the beautifully wrought scarf at Aymeric's neck, deftly undoing knot. Light blue in color, patterned with a shield bearing the rose, unicorn, and two other symbols G'raha doesn't immediately recognize but suspects corresponds to the other High Houses of Ishgard.

Around G'raha's shoulders Aymeric drapes his scarf, drawing near. G'raha tilts his head back to continue looking him in the eye instead of somewhere in the vicinity of his chest. And this close it becomes readily, starkly apparent in the curve of his jaw. Curl of dark hair against pale skin accented by rosy hue Aymeric's own susceptibility to the cold despite native claim. The fall of long lashes framing a gaze staring down warmly upon a transfixed G'raha - all of these things contribute only to the conclusion Ishgard's Lord Commander is a stunning, gorgeous man. 

"My thanks." 

Mercies upon mercies, G'raha's voice barely cracks when Aymeric finishes adjusting the thick garment just so. Steps back.

"Where - what," and he clears his throat, completely ruining the unruffled effect, "ah, what function serves this area, pray tell?"

"Perhaps a defunct purpose now, but here we stand among the Last Vigil."

A fitting name for such a somber area, adorned in little but its guardians. Some small shrubbery, life yet clinging in minor patches here and there.

The pair step up into a circular platform, gazes angled away from the city, off into the distance. While Aymeric continues, G'raha imagines the dravanian horde descending on each of the outlying citadels, one after another. Lights flickering out and so many lives with them. To be reduced to this one, sole watchtower against a sky of blackened wings.

G'raha's foes bore white, sickly tinted hide, scales, and skin, but the sentiment - seeing the Crystarium as a precious last bastion of defense - that thought makes him shiver. Source or the First, not so different after all.

Again Aymeric mistakes his reaction for the cold, but before he can speak further on the matter footsteps catch up to them from behind. Their errant Warrior, rosy cheeked himself and exhaling a cloud of misty breath. He rubs hands vigorously together for warmth through his gloves.

Eyebrows hike near his hairline seeing Aymeric's scarf draped around G'raha's neck. And G'raha's ears droop a tad, tail swishing agitatedly the way his fellow miqo'te's slow smile turns mischievous. Egads! 

The Warrior of Light says nothing, smile deepening, turning to Aymeric.

"Ahh," he says, pretending chagrin even, "might I request we retire earlier than anticipated? Some of us seem to be under certain influences of weather."

Times like this, G'raha thinks, following behind the pair as they lead on, he sometimes wonders whatever he first saw in the other man.

* * *

Certainly not his propensity for common kindness. Certainly not tact, either. No matter how many attempts G'raha tries to catch his attention across the dinner table, the Warrior remains deliberately obtuse. 

Choosing to sit beside the Lord Commander, thus leaving G'raha the seat directly across. Conversation takes a suspicious turn, too. Current events leading into new tidings from Ishgard and the rebuilding of the Firmament. Rehousing those displaced by the war, spearheaded largely by the efforts of skilled adventuring tradespersons across the land.

The Warrior takes a sip of his drink, swirling the glass in one hand. Contemplatively. G'raha knows that look.

"Feats of adventurers you say? Have you heard word of a cure for tempering?"

G'raha sinks lower in his chair the longer he continues, feeling his cheeks heat up. Surely crimson, fire red by now, the way the Warrior shamelessly plays up his role in the proceedings. And they haven't even broken into the wine yet so there goes blaming his color on anything other than embarrassment.

"You give me too much credit," G'raha demurs, "a team effort, to be certain. Much and more should be lent Aliasie's drive, her unending desire to see her commitments through until the end. Truly, whatever I achieve, I do only through the aid of my friends."

"Well spoken, master Tia. The mark of a true heroic soul."

G'raha startles, blinking at Aymeric. His warm smile, like he's grown another head. Heroic? Him?

The Warrior of Light appears to mean to continue, interrupted by what must be gentle ping of link pearl. Scion business, his fellow miqo'te mouths at him across the table, standing up. He waves G'raha remain seated while he exits the room to take the call in some measure of privacy.

In the Warrior's absence, G'raha's rather proud of himself for maintaining small talk. The subject of Ishgard's cold clime comes up and he starts again, realizing he's yet to remove the Lord Commander's scarf. Which he does that moment, folding it into a neat bundle and sliding it across the table.

"Thank you again," he says, "I - well. Shall I say it has been some time since I last traveled abroad? And..."

"Speak freely. You are among friends, surely?"

G'raha chuckles nervously. 

"Forgive me, this must seem terribly forward of me. But it is only, in all recent memory of my limited travels, the grandness of Ishgard fair inspires."

Aymeric raises one elegant, raven black eyebrow. Quick witted a man as he appears, underlying meanings do not pass him by as much as G'raha intends them to mean. He has only just met the man, after all. And his Warrior's affections, of course, always come first.

"Hmm." Aymeric steeples his hands in front of him, considering G'raha appraisingly.

Then he smiles once more, nodding to his manservant the cue to break open a bottle of red. And over the tinkling pouring liquid, turns the conversation a touch more personal. Inquiring after G'raha's home, his family, his past. History questions. Curiosity. 

The span of time they have only enough to grow warmly tipsy before the Warrior of Light returns with sheepish grin and regrettable tidings of being needed back on the front lines.

But reading between the lines of parting salutations. Of lingering gazes and slightly too long touching passes. First adjusting the Warrior's slightly askew cloak across his shoulders. Then Aymeric pressing his scarf into G'raha's hands, fingers brushing electric - tantalizing glimpses of.

Potential.

* * *

Weeks later, post slowed to barely a trickle in the sudden rise of tempered soldiers and monstrous beasts the world over, the letter postmarked with the Lord Commander's seal finally reaches G'raha and the Warrior of Light. Early morning misty hours, Warrior still abed, G'raha cuts the seal open and scans its contents. His ears twitch rapidly, fluffy tail unknowingly tickling his companion sleepily awake.

Hair mussed, rubbing sleep out of his eyes, the other miqo'te swings up, plopping chin heavily on G'raha's shoulder.

"What'cha reading?"

"Gah!"

The Warrior of Light chuckles, reaching over and scritching at one red, furry ear until G'raha leans into his hand. Eyes closed and purring.

"Pray also attend my regards to the Warrior of Light," the Warrior reads, "by now surely reading these contents over your shoulder. Ha! Looks like I owe Thancred that gil after all."

G'raha's eyes flicker open and he frowns. Owe Thancred what for what now?

"Pardon?"

The Warrior kisses his cheek, nuzzling against his neck.

"Come back to bed Raha," he murmurs, tugging lightly on G'raha's shirt as he pulls back. "Let me tell you all about warriors and a certain, long Ishgardian night, hmm?"

G'raha turns around, following him down, but can't resist one last rejoinder.

"There's a really terrible pun there I have yet to follow, isn't there?"

Laughter.


End file.
